A Steep Learning Curve

Morning light pressed faintly through the blinds, striping the ceiling in pale gold. The alarm vibrated against the nightstand, insistent but not loud. Craig opened his eyes and silenced it without sitting up.

Stillness followed.

For two mornings in a row, waking had meant loss. An entire category of clothing erased and replaced. Boxer briefs rewritten into lace. T-shirts thinned and cropped. His closet curated into something softer, brighter, narrower. Each change accompanied by an invisible revision of the world itself, as though reality insisted the new arrangement had always been correct.

The clerk's voice, from when he'd tried to buy men's underwear a couple nights prior, drifted back to him.

"You live your truth."

Encouraging. Earnest. Completely misdirected. There had been no truth to live. No declaration. ****. Just the quiet and magical theft of his masculinity.

Bowling, though, had gone well. Pink straps and all. Beer, laughter, easy conversation. No stares. No whispers. No one treating him as though he were making some grand social statement. The world had absorbed the change without friction.

Outside of his clothes being transformed, Craig's life had remained intact.

Maybe this new life would be survivable.

Optimism, fragile but present, pushed him to move. Blankets were thrown back. Cool air brushed bare skin.

The previous night, Craig had gone to bed naked on purpose. A small rebellion. A test.

Pink.

The colour registered before the shape did.

Lace wrapped his torso in intricate patterns, delicate and unmistakable. A bodysuit. Soft blush pink, sheer enough to reveal more than it concealed. Cut like a one-piece swimsuit, but narrower at the hips, lower at the chest, designed to cling and frame.

Heat crept into his face despite the empty room.

Fingers traced the fabric tentatively. It was impossibly soft, cool against his skin. The material shifted when he breathed, moving with him rather than against him. Sensation sharpened where lace pressed close.

He swallowed.

Climbing out of bed brought awareness he would rather not catalogue. The fabric grazed his thighs, stretched across his chest, rubbed against his penis. Straightening fully, he could feel it tighten, pulling the material between his butt cheeks. A faint shiver ran through him.

Sensations he absolutely refused to unpack at seven in the morning.

Removal proved less intuitive than expected. No zipper. No buttons. No obvious closure. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped the straps from his shoulders and worked the bodysuit down inch by inch. Lace whispered against skin before pooling at his feet.

The garment was tossed carelessly on the mattress.

The previous two nights, Eros' power had entered Craig's bedroom and made a change. The anticipation, the anxiety of what the god would do to him had given him a restless sleep, waking every hour or so, fighting the temptation to search his bedroom each time. But now that morning had arrived, there was no more time for delay.

It was time to assess the damage.

Drawer by drawer, he moved quietly, mindful of Frank asleep down the hall.

Panties: unchanged from yesterday. A drawer full of satin, lace, and silk in colours he would never have purchased himself.

Shirts: still cropped, still fitted, still boldly feminine.

Socks. Jeans. Work pants. All present. All unchanged.

Nothing new.

Hope flared, cautious but real.

Closet doors slid open with a soft scrape. Blouses hung in neat rows, pastel and floral as before. Dress pants remained at the far end. Jackets undisturbed.

No additional casualties.

A slow breath left him.

Maybe that was it. Maybe whatever **** had been rearranging his life had finished its project. Maybe divine stamina had limits. Even gods ran out of power, didn't they?

Or perhaps he had already fulfilled whatever purpose Eros had in mind. He'd been told to expect changes, but beyond that the god had been vague. Maybe the only changes Craig needed to find his soulmate were to wear women's shirts and panties.

Maybe...

Barefoot on hardwood, he reached for the underwear drawer again. This time selection was quick, the closest to the top with the most coverage. White satin with lace trim. Smooth between his fingers. Slipping them on felt almost routine now. The fabric rested cool against his skin, moulding easily.

Work jeans followed, familiar weight settling at his hips.

The T-shirt drawer waited.

Without looking, he pulled out a tight, cropped, soft white cotton. In the centre of the chest, a small pink kitten sat peacefully. Remembering that no one at the warehouse had objected with his last shirt, he slid the drawer closed.

The shirt went on.

Midriff exposed. Sleeves short and snug. The reflection in the mirror offered no judgement, only confirmation. He was almost ready for work.

Washroom light flicked on. Cool water splashed against his face. Toothpaste foamed. Mint lingered sharp on his tongue. Deodorant swiped under each arm. Routine grounded him in something tangible.

Back in the bedroom, socks were retrieved from the drawer and carried to the closet.

Hand reached automatically for his sneakers.

He froze.

The space at the bottom of the closet looked wrong.

All of his footwear was gone. In their place stood an orderly line of unfamiliar silhouettes.

Knee-high black leather boots with tapered heels. Strappy stilettos in glossy patent red. Nude kitten heels with delicate pointed toes. Even the sneakers, his reliable, worn-in sneakers, had transformed. Each pair lifted at the heel with a wedge. Every sole curved upward with unmistakable intent.

Not one flat surface remained.

His heart dropped hard enough to feel it in his throat.

A careful step forward brought him closer. Fingers brushed the nearest pair of sneakers: white with pale pink accents along the sides, laces threaded neatly. The heel was neither the highest nor the lowest, built into a white wedge that sloped upward.

He carried them to the bed and sat down heavily.

Socks went on first, pulled snug. Then the sneakers. Both feet slid inside more easily than expected. The interior cushioning cradled his arch differently than before, shifting his weight forward.

Laces tightened.

He rose slowly. Standing required caution. The world tilted by a fraction, perspective lifted just enough to notice. He was taller. Not dramatically, but undeniably. How he was going to do his warehouse work in heels was beyond him.

He hoped, with no real evidence to support it, that the work boots in his locker hadn't transformed.

Weight settled into the balls of his feet.

A tentative step forward.

Another.

The floor felt different beneath him, posture correcting involuntarily to compensate for the incline.

There would be no flat ground for him today. Or, perhaps, any day moving forward. Trying to work around the transformation had made it worse for him in the past. What would buying men's sneakers do to him this time? Ballet heels?

He looked down at the rise of the shoes beneath his jeans and exhaled slowly.

Walking that day would come with a learning curve, and thanks to his new shoes, he could feel exactly how steep it would be.